The Lawmen (4 page)

7

“Come in,” Clay told Wes, standing aside.

Nodding thanks, Wes Hopkins stepped into the marshal’s office. In his cell, Vance Hopkins danced around happily and cried, “God damn, it’s about time you came, Wes.”

Wes went back to the cells. “What’s this about you killing a man last night?” he asked his brother.

“It was a nigger, Wes. That’s all. Hell, I was so drunk I had to open my shirt collar to piss. Me and Driscoll was fooling around, and I done some shooting, and this nigger got in the way. It was an accident, no big thing.”

Wes let out his breath. “Vance, you’re a fool. I'm tired of getting you out of trouble. I’ve got enough to worry about without wet-nursing you.”

Vance was chastened by his brother’s reaction. His eyes narrowed in pain as his hangover worsened. “All right, I’m sorry. Now get me out of here. This damn marshal won’t let me have no whiskey, and then when I had to take a shit, he went and handcuffed me first.”

“I can’t say that I blame him,” Wes said. He turned. Young Johnny Evitts was staring at him in awe. Johnny had never been this close to somebody as important as Wes Hopkins. Clay sat in a chair, pulling on his boots. “Have you had breakfast yet?” Wes asked him.

Clay stamped his foot into a boot and rose. “No.”

“Perhaps you’ll be my guest, then.”

Clay hesitated.

“My men won’t do anything,” Wes assured him. “You have my word, and everyone in town will tell you that I keep my word.”

“All right,” Clay said. He got his pistol belt and buckled it on.

“You won’t need that,” Wes said, pulling open his coat. “I’m not armed.”

Clay left the pistol at his waist. “It goes with the job,” he told Wes. To Johnny Evitts he said, “Keep an eye on our guest.” Then he followed Wes outside.

Across the street the crowd of onlookers had grown, shading their eyes against the early morning sun as they watched the marshal’s office. Leaning against the hitching rail by the door was a lean, high-cheeked fellow with a wolfish grin. His yellowish eyes followed Clay’s every move.

“My brother Lee,” Wes said, introducing the wolfish fellow.

Lee touched his hat brim insolently. “Morning, Marshal.”

Clay nodded to him.

Wes said, “We’ll go to Lee Fong’s. Have you been there yet?”

“No,” said Clay.

“I think you’ll like it.”

They crossed the street. Wes gave no thought to the traffic—if they were smart, men and animals would stay out of his way. They were followed by two armed men, hard cases dressed like cowboys, though Clay doubted that they’d ever roped a steer or used a branding iron—except maybe for rustling.

“You don’t look like your brothers,” Clay observed.

“So I’ve been told. I hold a deep affection for them nonetheless, I assure you.”

Clay wondered how long Wes had practiced to achieve his air of quality. He said, “I found a pistol hidden in the outhouse this morning. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Wes smiled. “I’m hardly an expert in outhouse construction. No doubt someone misplaced it.”

“No doubt.”

Across the street the onlookers hastened out of the way. Wes and Clay walked along until they came to a low frame building whose misspelled sign proudly proclaimed: “Lee Fong’s Uncel Sam Restaurant. American Food.” There were no other customers inside. A nervous Chinaman showed Wes and Clay to a table by the restaurant’s only window.

“It’s always slow this time of day,” Wes explained as they sat. “Breakfast for most men in Topaz is three shots of whiskey and a chaw of tobacco.”

The Chinaman stood beside his guest. “Menu, Mr. Hopkins?”

“I don’t think so, Lee. Steak, eggs, fried potatoes—that all right with you, Marshal?”

Clay made a gesture of acceptance.

“Coffee to drink, or would you like something stronger. Champagne, perhaps?”

“Coffee’s fine.”

Wes dismissed the Chinaman with a wave of his hand. Clay heard hushed orders given in the kitchen. A moment later a young Chinese woman brought out a steaming pot of coffee and two cups. She poured the coffee and withdrew. Wes’s two gunmen stood at the restaurant door, alert for any threat to their boss and dissuading potential customers from entering. Every now and then Lee Fong or a member of his family peeked into the room.

Wes looked at Clay with cold blue eyes, the eyes of a man used to getting his way. “Let’s get to the point, Marshal. You have my brother in custody. I’d like him released.”

“You know I can’t do that, Hopkins.”

“And you know there’s no such word as ‘can’t.’ Look, I'm a reasonable man. I believe there’s no problem that can’t be worked out peaceably.”

Clay sipped his coffee. “You weren’t so reasonable with Julie Bennett.”

Wes sighed. “That was unfortunate—regrettable, really. Believe me, I don’t like doing that sort of thing, but Julie was holding out on us. If we hadn’t made an example of her, every whore in town would have been pulling the same trick.”

The food came. Clay tucked into his steak and potatoes, still famished from months of near starvation in the desert. “Food to your liking?” Wes asked.

“Excellent,” Clay said between mouthfuls.

Wes picked up his fork, but instead of eating, he pointed the fork at Clay. “I’ll make my brother’s freedom worth your while, Marshal. A payment of two thousand dollars would not be out of order.”

Clay almost choked on his food. “That’s more than a year’s wages for me.”

“And you deserve it. You’re doing a good job from what I hear. You and I could work well together. Lord knows I don’t want a disorderly town. I’m thinking of building a house here to go along with my ranch. I may bring my wife to live here.”

“Didn’t know you were married,” Clay said, eating again.

“I’m not, yet.”

“Got somebody in mind?”

Wes nodded, smiling. “If she’ll say yes, and I believe she will. She’s a wonderful girl, a Mexican from Arispe.”

Clay washed down his steak with some coffee. “You going to cut her face if she does something you don’t like?”

Wes’s jaws clenched. “I came here as a friend, Marshal, and you insult me. That’s not a smart way to do business. Now, what do you say to my offer?”

“I say, no. If I wasn’t such a nice fellow, I’d arrest you for attempted bribery.”

Wes acted as if Clay’s response was a part of the bargaining process. “Three thousand dollars?”

“Not three thousand, not three million. Vance killed a man. He’s going to face justice.”

Clay expected Wes to get angry, but he didn’t. He sat back in his chair, studying Clay. At last he said, “I can’t figure you out, Chandler. You either have a death wish, or you’re a glory hunter.”

“Just doing my job, Wes. Just doing my job.”

 “If you have a death wish, you know, you just might find it fulfilled. And all for a nigra.” He used the planter’s term for blacks. “If Vance had killed a white man, even by accident, I might understand, but a nigra? Why?”

“Because it’s the law, and I’m a lawman. Why not let Vance serve his time? You can afford good lawyers for him. He’ll still be fairly young when he gets out.”

Wes shook his head. “No, he won’t. If he’s convicted, he’ll have to go to Tucson. I don’t want the territorial government to get their hands on him, or the Federal government—or the government of Texas, if they learn he’s in custody. He’s wanted for other things, you see. ”

“My, my, you boys have been busy, haven’t you?”

“That’s one way of putting it. Now, you think about my offer—three thousand dollars. Think very hard. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to let Vance go.”

“And if I don’t?”

Wes’s tone turned menacing. He dropped the fancy accent. “Then my men and me will take him. And we’ll kill you and anyone who tries to help you.” As quickly as it had vanished, his smile returned. From his vest pocket he hauled out an expensive Waterbury watch on a gold chain. He opened the watch’s case. “I make it nine twenty-seven. ” He showed the watch to Clay. “You agree?”

Clay nodded.

“Good.” Wes snapped the watch shut and returned it to his pocket. “You have until nine twenty-seven tomorrow morning to free my brother. You have my word that no action will be taken against you before then. After that . . . well, let’s just say I hope you’ll see reason. I like you, Marshal, I really do. Vance is going to go free in any case; it’s senseless for you to give up your life for nothing.”

Wes slid back his chair and stood, preparing to leave. His big meal lay on the table untouched. “Aren’t you going to pay?” Clay asked, suddenly worried that he might get stuck with the bill.

“Pay? Pay?” Wes laughed. “I don’t pay for anything in Topaz, and neither do my guests. Twenty-four hours, Marshal—think it over.”

Wes turned and walked out the restaurant door into the bright sunlight. His two bodyguards gave Clay a last look, then they followed their boss.

8

Clay returned to his office from his meeting with Wes Hopkins. “What happened?” Johnny Evitts asked.

“Wes gave us twenty-four hours to let his brother go,” Clay replied.

“Or what?”

“Or Wes and his men will try and take him.”

In his cell, Vance laughed loudly and got his hat. “Guess it’s time to let me go, huh?”

“Guess again,” Clay told him. To Johnny he said, “Looks like we’ll find out if you’re as good with those guns as you say you are.”

Johnny’s lean face paled even more than it already was. “You and me—we’re going to take on the Hopkins gang?”

“It won’t be just you and me. The rest of the town will help. Get yourself a rifle to go with those six-guns. Make sure your weapons are cleaned and that you have plenty of ammunition. We might have to stand a—”

He stopped. Johnny’s head was down, as if he were ashamed of something.

“What’s wrong?” Clay asked him.

Without meeting Clay’s eye, Johnny unpinned the badge from his checked flannel shirt.

“What are you doing?” Clay asked.

“I—I guess I’m quitting.”

From his cell, Vance laughed again.

Clay ignored the prisoner’s outburst. “You’re not scared?” he asked Johnny.

Johnny looked up at him defiantly. “I ain’t scared of nothing. But I ain’t committing suicide, neither, not for no dead nigger. And that’s what taking on the Hopkins gang is—suicide. It ain’t only suicide, it’s crazy—that’s what it is.”

“I told you, we’ll have help.”

“There ain’t enough help in this town to make me take on that bunch. You ain’t from around here, mister. You don’t know what they can do.”

He handed Clay the badge. There was a moment of awkward silence, then Johnny said, “Well, good luck.”

Clay made no reply, and Johnny walked out the door, shaking his head.

Clay tossed the badge in the air and caught it, looking thoughtful.

Vance’s cackling interrupted him. “Don’t look good for you, does it, Marshal?”

Clay turned toward his prisoner. “I never counted on Johnny anyway,” he lied.

Vance went on. “You owe me three square meals a day, you know, and I’m sure ready for—”

Clay started for the front door.

“Where are you going?” Vance asked him. “To get my food?”

“No. I'm going to see the mayor. If your brother wants a battle, we’ll give him one.”

Clay left the office and walked down Tucson Street. Men shuffled out of his way. They avoided him with mumbled good mornings, or stood speaking with one another in hushed tones. It was already hot. Clay wished that he had a watch. He glanced in the window of the First Bank of Topaz—Cruickshank’s bank. The wall clock said ten-thirteen. For a moment Clay had an absurd thought—that if he stopped the hands on that clock, he could stop time, and stop the inevitable. Then he shook off the thought. No one could stop time—or fate.

Mayor Price wasn’t in his store. Hastings, the clerk, told Clay to try a bar called the Green Cloth, at the end of the street. Clay thanked him and left. His path took him past Topaz’s only hotel. As he approached, he saw that Hopkins’s men had made the hotel their headquarters in town. They were coming and going, or lounging out front. Clay heard laughter from the barroom inside. A knot of Hopkins’s men saw him coming. They nudged one another and parted, revealing Lee Hopkins seated in a chair in front of the building, his right foot propped against an awning support, blocking the sidewalk. Lee was sharpening a straight razor on a whetstone, apparently oblivious of Clay’s presence.

Clay stopped beside Lee’s chair. Lee looked up, as if noticing Clay for the first time. “Well, hello again, Marshal. Up and about, are we? Say, you know, you look like you could use a shave.” He scraped the razor across the stone pointedly. “Just like Scarface Julie.” The rest of the gang members laughed.

Clay kicked Lee’s foot aside, smashing hard on Lee’s ankle. Lee’s wolfish face flashed with anger. He started from his seat, then remembered that Wes had given Clay twenty-four hours grace, and sat back down, smiling again. “Tough, huh? Well, maybe we’ll get a chance to find out how tough you are. I hope so.”

Clay walked past him without a reply, and the gang members laughed once more.

The Green Cloth was in a shady spot near the river. It was as swanky an establishment as there was in Topaz. The back bar was lined with polished liquor bottles—the kind of liquor that men like Clay would never think of drinking even if they could afford it. Over the bar was a painting of a gorgeous nude.

The saloon was crowded with well-dressed men. In Topaz people drank as hard in the morning as they did at night. Clay saw Thomas Price and the city council members at a table in the back, and he started toward them.

“Hey, fella!” a white-jacketed bartender snarled, pointing at a sign on the wall. “Can’t you read? This is a private club. Only members are allowed.”

Clay ignored him and kept going. The bartender, a big man, crossed the room with surprising swiftness and grabbed Clay’s arm. “I said—”

“If you don’t want that hand broken, take it off my arm,” Clay told him.

The bartender hesitated, then Mayor Price spoke up. “It’s all right, Fred.”

The bartender gave Clay a last look and went back to work.

Clay joined Price and the others at the table. They were glum and worried. Mayor Price was knocking back sherry cobblers; Judge Saxon and the lawyer Dunleavy had their favorite brands of whiskey; the newspaperman McCarty and Cruickshank the banker were drinking coffee.

“Drink?” the mayor asked Clay.

“No, thanks,” Clay replied. He told the men about Wes Hopkins’s ultimatum.

The five men shared a look. “We know,” Price said. “Wes came in here earlier and told us.”

“I hope the management treated him better than it did me,” Clay cracked.

“They did,” Judge Saxon said. “He’s a member.”

Clay wasn’t surprised. “My deputy’s quit,” he went on. “I’ve come to ask you fellows for help.”

Sighing, Mayor Price leaned back in his chair. With his thumb and middle finger he massaged his bleary, red-rimmed eyes. “Marshal, I’m going to ask you a favor. No, change that—I’m going to make it an order. I want you to release Vance Hopkins.”

Clay stiffened in his chair. “You can’t be serious.”